A Time to Weep and a Time to Laugh
by minna.bird
Summary: It's been seven months since the Battle of Hogwarts, and Cyril Cresswell can't stop dwelling on what he's lost. But when his father appears as a ghost in his room on Christmas Eve, he's swept along on a journey that may just change things for the better.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

**Prologue**

A moon-faced barn owl landed on a windowsill silently and tapped its beak against the cold glass. Its owner, a young man with dull brown hair and freckles on his nose, opened the window and let the owl in.

"Any answer, Muldoon?" Cyril Cresswell asked the owl as it fluttered over to its favorite spot on top of the bookshelf. It ruffled its feathers and tucked its head under one wing in answer. Cyril sighed, settled back in his armchair and returned to staring out the window.

Snow gleamed white on every surface outside and windows glowed warmly from within. Fairy lights, both literal and figurative - it was, after all, not entirely a Muggle street – twinkled on trees and houses, and wreaths tied with red bows adorned every door. By every indication outside, it was Christmas. But there was no such evidence of holiday spirit in the dark first-story room.

The room, chosen more because of its low price than anything else, was sparsely furnished. It had come with a rickety bed, a bedside table, a wobbly wooden chair, a cooker and a dresser to put his clothes in. The only changes he had made were to transfigure the chair into something more comfortable (he had a feeling the landlady wouldn't mind) and cram his bookshelf into the tiny room next to the dresser. Not a single bit of tinsel or sprig of holly had made it into this room; Cyril had decided that he wasn't going to celebrate Christmas this year. It was more good cheer and joy to the world than he felt up to at the moment.

Nothing in his world felt particularly cheery right then. It had been seven months since he had fought in the battle that had seen the end of Voldemort, nine months since he'd learned that the Snatchers had murdered his father, and a full year since he had lost the girl he loved.

Only the girl he loved hadn't been lost to death like his father. She was still walking and breathing and living in her parents' house in Tinworth. She hadn't spoken to him since Christmas Eve last year. In the first months, Cyril had sent endless letters, Apparated over to Tinworth every few days to knock on her door and try to convince her to talk to him, and even, when drunk one night – not at all a usual state for him – gone straight into her living room via the Floo Network. He had escaped back through the Floo to his flat (formerly _theirs_) and promptly collapsed, his legs having gone out from under him; she'd cast a Sponge-Knees Curse on him. After that, he'd kept sending letters – one the first Sunday of every month, regular as clockwork - but he'd given up on talking to her in person and moved to cheaper lodgings.

And despite the fact that it had been months since he'd had any hope of getting her back, Cyril had spent his Christmas Eve writing and sending at least five different letters to her, each more plaintive than the last. There had been not a single reply. It hurt, but deep down, Cyril thought she had a right to hate him.

Cyril stared at the lights in the windows across the street from him, seeing nothing. It had been exactly a year since the night Sarah Fawcett had ceased to be his girlfriend, and Cyril couldn't help but remember why. She blamed him for what she'd lost. She –

"No Christmas decorations, Cyril? This isn't like you."

Cyril jerked upright in his seat, gasping. That _voice_…

His eyes, when he turned to look at the rest of the room, confirmed what his ears had heard. "D-dad?" he asked faintly.

The figure in the center of his room was a man of medium height with a very definite paunch and smiling eyes behind round glasses. But for the transparency, he looked in every way exactly like Cyril's father had in life. It couldn't be, though; his father wouldn't have come back as a ghost. And even if he had, surely he wouldn't have waited this long to contact Cyril. "This can't be real," Cyril said. "I must be dreaming."

"Believe me, it is real," said the apparition who looked like his father. "It's as real as anything can be. Don't ask for explanations. I know you're dying to know how, but just accept this for what it is: a father coming to give his son some advice."

Cyril took a shuddering breath, his fingers grasping the arms of his chair so hard that his joints creaked. "But – you're –"

"Dead? I know. And no, I haven't been a ghost all this time. This is something special." Cyril opened his mouth, and his father said quickly, "No – no questions, Cyril." His father gazed at him a moment, smiling a little. "It's good to see your face. I only wish it was on a happier occasion. This _should_ be a happy occasion; it's Christmas Eve, after all! You should be celebrating, not sitting alone in the dark sulking."

"I'm not sulking, Dad," said Cyril, sighing. "I'm – well, I don't see why I have to pretend to be happy on Christmas Eve. Christmas doesn't exactly have the happiest memories for me right now."

"No?" said his father. "Are you sure?" And with that, he swooped over to grab Cyril's arm, tugged – and they were gone.

**A/N: **Thanks to Natalie/hestia-jones28 for being an awesome beta.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

It wasn't like Apparition. It wasn't like anything Cyril had experienced before. He was in his room one moment, and the next, he was somewhere else entirely, with no feeling of having moved at all.

Cyril recognized where he was immediately: the living room of his childhood home, where his mother and younger brother Mattie still lived. A tall fir tree stood in one corner, near the fireplace, decorated with holly, live fairies, fake snow conjured by magic, and candles enchanted to "burn" with magical flames. More of these candles stood on the mantelpiece. Presents wrapped in colorful paper were piled under the tree.

"H-how'd we get here?" he asked. His father looked at him sternly, and Cyril said, "Right. No questions." His father _had_ to know that this rule bothered him – he'd been a Ravenclaw, for the love of Merlin; wanting to _know_ things came with the territory.

His train of thought was interrupted as a trio of small boys came galloping into the living room, screaming, "Presents, presents, presents!" The smallest and most remarkable of the three had a riot of carrot-colored curls and a maniacal grin on his face. His older brothers looked similar to one another, with light brown hair and freckles, but the older one was heavier-set and his hair was several shades lighter. Cyril could only gape, speechless: these boys were Cyril and his brothers as children. Even as he watched, the younger version of him turned and shouted impatiently to lagging parents, "Hurry up! We want to open presents!" None of them seemed to have seen Cyril or his father.

The redhead, Mattie, had been distracted from his eagerness for presents: he was busy poking one of the fairies. He gave a little yell and jumped away, sucking his finger. Cyril watched the oldest of the three – Henry – tell Mattie, "Mum says we're not supposed to play with the fairies."

"I remember this Christmas," said Cyril. "I was six. This was the year Henry got his first broomstick and insisted on trying it out immediately."

His father winced. "Lucky your mother's a crack hand at healing spells, or we would've been at St. Mungo's that Christmas."

"What is this?" Cyril asked, watching his parents – looking less lined, but otherwise the same as ever – as they walked into the room, cradling cups of coffee and blinking sleep out of their eyes.

"It's a memory – a happy memory of Christmas." His father smiled and pointed back at the tree. "Look, you're starting."

Cyril watched as he and his brothers tore paper off their presents, laughing and shouting out what they'd got. Cyril smiled to see that he had a pile of picture books, among other things. Some things never changed.

"I still believed in Father Christmas then," Cyril mused. "I used to make myself go to sleep an hour earlier than usual, just to make sure I wouldn't offend him – he wouldn't come if I was awake, after all."

"And you made us leave carrots for the reindeer," said his father. "I believe this was the year you started doing that."

"Did you have to Vanish the carrots, or did you eat those too?" Cyril asked, laughing.

"I owled them to the Easter bunny," his father joked. "Now watch."

Cyril looked back at the scene by the tree just in time to see himself ripping the wrapping paper off a box. He saw a look of awe come over the younger Cyril's face, and then a grin as he scrambled to open the box. When he finally succeeded in getting it open, he reached in and pulled out a finely carved wooden dragon, painted green. He pressed a finger against the nape of the dragon's neck and it sprang to life, spreading leather wings experimentally. It cocked its head, then performed a running leap into the air, its wings pumping. Once it was airborne, it flew in little circles over the ecstatic young Cyril's head.

"Scales." Cyril smiled wistfully. "I _loved_ him. He was somewhere between a favorite toy and a pet. I took him everywhere with me. I even took him to Hogwarts the first year."

"I remember your mum almost didn't let you," his father said. "Not a lot of first years take toys to Hogwarts."

"He was more than a toy," protested Cyril, his ears feeling hot.

His father changed the subject. "Looks like you guys are all done over there."

While they had been talking, the boys had finished unwrapping the last of the gifts, and they were hauling their presents to their rooms. Young Cyril now had Scales tucked under his arm, the magic that had animated him dormant. He stopped to hug his parents and say, "This was the best Christmas _ever_!"

"I miss that," the older Cyril commented. "The waking up on Christmas morning feeling like it's the most magical thing that's ever happened to you, despite all the magic you see every day. Dragging you and Mum out of bed obscenely early. Ripping paper off presents and using the result to have confetti fights." He laughed. "Listening to Christmas carols on the wireless while you sang along in the cheesiest voice you could muster."

"Then I think that is what this memory was meant to remind you of: the magic of Christmastime." His father smiled. "Now I think it's time to move on to the next one." He grabbed Cyril's arm and the next moment, they were in another memory.

Cyril looked around, and smiled. They stood in the fifth floor corridor of Hogwarts, next to the staircase that led up to Ravenclaw Tower. A suit of armor that stood against the wall singing Christmas carols had only a very spotty knowledge as to how "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" went, but it seemed to be having good fun. Cyril grinned.

"Must've been a difficult enchantment to do," Cyril's father said, staring at the armor bemusedly. "Are they all like that?"

"Every suit in the castle," said Cyril. "Peeves spent most of this Christmas filling in the gaps in the songs. You can imagine what that sounded like."

"Yes," his father said, laughing. "I can certainly imagine that. I take it you know which Christmas this is, then?"

"Sixth year," Cyril said. "The year the Triwizard Tournament happened."

"Ah," said his father, a knowing tone in his voice.

"What?" Cyril glared at his father. He was almost certainly purposely baiting Cyril. His father's only answer was to point up at the spiral staircase.

Cyril drew in a quick breath. Sarah stood at the top of the staircase, her golden curls pinned up so that they fell in a sort of waterfall over her neck. Her blue eyes were made up somehow so that they looked bigger than ever and extremely bright, and she wore elegant pale blue dress robes that bared her shoulders and hugged her figure. She was looking back over her shoulder, talking to someone behind her, as she began to walk down the stairs.

Cyril was unsurprised to hear his own laugh and see himself, in warm brown robes, coming down the staircase after Sarah. Younger Cyril caught up with Sarah, murmured something in her ear, and she laughed and held out an arm. He took her arm and they proceeded down the staircase in as grand a manner as possible, each hiding smiles. Sarah turned around at the bottom step and said to Cyril, "I'm glad you finally plucked up the courage to ask me to the ball." He raised his eyebrows, surprised, and she said, "It was getting to the point that I almost asked _you_ out, to put you out of your misery."

"That obvious, was I?" the younger Cyril said ruefully.

"Well, _yes_." She grinned. "Cyril, it's _me_. We've been friends since…forever. You don't have to worry about what I think of you, because you _know_ I think well of you."

Cyril smiled nervously. "It's just, it's different when it's a date. It changes things."

"Well, stop worrying about it and have fun," Sarah said. "Now let's go to that ball."

The present day Cyril and his ghostly father followed the pair as they walked to the Great Hall, Sarah chatting about who had asked whom to the ball and which song she hoped the Weird Sisters would play, while the younger Cyril tried not to seem nervous.

Cyril, watching his younger self, was beginning to wish that his father was not there. This memory could very well lead into a moment that he didn't exactly want to share with his father, or anybody. Not that it was particularly compromising, but it was…private, a memory that had always belonged to him and Sarah alone.

But he could worry about that later; first, the ball.

The younger Cyril and Sarah paused a moment in the entrance to the Great Hall, looking for their friends. Patricia Stimpson, a brown-haired Gryffindor girl who was friends with Sarah, waved at them. Next to her sat Algie Alderton, Cyril's best friend and fellow sixth-year Ravenclaw, looking quite surprisingly dapper wearing crimson dress robes, his long, curly blonde hair scraped out of his face in a horsetail. Cyril and Sarah crossed the room hurriedly to join them; they were a bit late, and people were already digging into their food. The older Cyril and his father followed.

"Where were you?" Patricia asked.

"I took a little longer getting ready, that's all," said Sarah. "It's not like it really matters; we're not that late."

"You didn't miss anything," Algie assured her, his mouth full. Patricia hit him lightly on the arm, trying not to smile, and he swallowed and said, "It's not like this is really a date. I don't have to impress you." He smiled cheekily at her and she rolled her eyes.

Cyril, meanwhile, had been looking around trying to figure out the secret of getting the plates to give you food. Usually it just…appeared. "Hey, how do we work these things?" he asked Algie.

"Just tell it what you want. There's a menu." Algie indicated a slip of creamy white cardstock with his fork. Cyril picked it up, perused it for a moment and ordered.

The older Cyril glanced around the room; the stage was being set up, so the dancing ought to start soon, but this was still the very beginning of the Yule Ball. "I feel like this is going to be a very _long_ memory," he said wryly.

"I find it quite intriguing." His father was looking around with interest. "We never had anything like this when I was at Hogwarts. In fact, I've never seen this room without the house tables; it looks so…_odd_."

"Hmm. I guess I'm less in awe of it, given that I've lived through it before. I've seen this room covered in purple sleeping bags before, though, so this is nothing."

"Purple sleeping bags?" His father raised a transparent eyebrow.

"Fifth year, when Sirius Black got into the castle," said Cyril dismissively, craning his neck as he watched to see if the champions were getting up yet. At the table, his younger self was occupied in wolfing down his food while his friends chatted. He'd been unable to eat lunch that day, he remembered; he'd been screwing up the nerve to ask Sarah to the ball all throughout the meal, and his stomach had rebelled at the thought of food.

Finally, the Weird Sisters began to play, and the champions proceeded down to the floor to open the dancing.

Cyril watched as Sarah dragged a younger version of himself away from the ruins of his meal. The twenty-year-old Cyril winced in embarrassment; his sixteen-yet-old self had a rather foolish smile on his face and kept tripping over his own feet. This almost didn't matter, for after a minute or so they stopped trying to look like they knew how to dance and simply swayed on the spot, like many other couples on the dance floor.

"You look happy," his father said, and Cyril jumped and flushed bright red. He'd almost forgotten that his father was there, seeing everything that he was seeing.

He mumbled, "Yeah, I guess."

"Looks like more than 'I guess' to me." His father had a slight smile on his face as he watched Sarah Fawcett wrap her arms tightly around his son, who returned the favor rather nervously. Cyril nodded. It certainly was more than "I guess." He remembered that moment pretty well – butterflies exploding in his stomach and his mind racing, trying to think of the right thing to say or do. He'd dated before – taken Julia Gorse to Hogsmeade several times, and spent two months kissing Fiona Sweeney between classes before she broke up with him over a stupid argument – but with Sarah it had been different. Sixteen-year-old Cyril had not known how to describe it to himself, except that he simply liked her more than he'd liked any other girl before.

Twenty-year-old Cyril knew that, even then, he'd been head-over-heels in love with Sarah Fawcett.

For an hour or so they watched the younger Cyril dance with Sarah, chat with Algie and Patricia, and even do a terrible swing number with Patricia while Algie and Sarah danced circles round them. There was a lot of laughter and a lot of fun had all round, but after a while Algie and Patricia begged out, saying their feet hurt, and returned to the table. Sarah and Cyril were feeling a bit worn out themselves, so they wandered out into the rose garden conjured specially for that night.

Fairies lit on hedges and statues, lending an ethereal air to the moonlit garden. There was no one in sight; the place felt serene and deserted, the only noise the clamor of voices inside, fading as they walked, and the breeze rustling in the leaves. The older Cyril and his father came behind them on ghostly feet, silent watchers.

Cyril stopped suddenly, and turned to his father. "Could you maybe…wait here? It's just…"

His father smiled. "I understand. Go on. It's your memory, not mine."

Cyril followed his younger self and Sarah, feeling oddly like an intruder. They sat close together on a small stone bench, Cyril holding one of Sarah's hands between his own. Neither was speaking; they simply sat in peaceful silence for a while. Finally Sarah stirred, and said, "Cyril?"

"Hmm?" The younger Cyril looked over at Sarah, smiling slightly, and she pressed her lips against his. He made a small noise, whether of surprise or pleasure not even he knew, and kissed her back.

After a minute or two, Sarah pulled away and smiled at him. "I'm glad we came together," she said softly, as if not wanting to disturb the hush of the garden. "I really, really like you."

Cyril nodded jerkily; words simply wouldn't come. This time, _he_ kissed _her_, and they passed another several happy minutes in this way.

Twenty-year-old Cyril, watching one of his most precious memories come to life, backed away, more quickly with every step, and hid behind the nearest hedge. What was this? What was happening? Was fate trying to throw all his best memories into his face, mocking him for letting his life get as screwed up as it was? Nothing in this past year even came close to matching the happiness he had felt just watching his younger self kiss Sarah – a ghost of the joy the younger Cyril was feeling.

His father appeared before him, just like that, and Cyril didn't even pause to be surprised. "Dad," he said, feeling like a child again, scared and asking his father for help. "Dad, nothing's right anymore. Nothing's like this."

His father looked grave. "Why do you think I came to you? I'm supposed to be showing you all the good memories, helping you remember how wonderful Christmas can be if you let it."

"But…I don't see how it can be this year," Cyril said, his voice cracking. "Not without…" He looked back over his shoulder. His younger self and Sarah were emerging from their nook, with mussed hair and wide smiles. He swallowed hard and looked back at his father. "Without Sarah."

"Shh." His father placed a comforting, if slightly insubstantial, hand on Cyril's shoulder. "We'll talk about this later. But first, there are other visits to make."

"Okay." Cyril nodded. "Let's go."

His father reached for his arm again and in another moment, they had disappeared.

Cyril felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. He knew immediately where they were: the flat he and Sarah had rented together after she'd left Hogwarts. They stood in the dark bedroom, but Cyril knew where they really should be: in the sitting room-cum-kitchenette.

He turned to his father, suddenly angry. "Why are we here? Is this supposed to be an improvement over the last memory?"

"What are you talking about?" His father's brow was furrowed, his gaze worried. Cyril stormed out into the main room, and pointed to the couple sitting at the candlelit table, laughing and holding glasses of wine.

"This! It's not a happy memory at all. How is this supposed to make me like Christmas? Don't you remember when we rented this place?" He gestured around the room. "We only ever had one Christmas in this flat, and it was the worst Christmas of my life, this one included. This is the night…"

He paused, glancing at the smiles on his and Sarah's faces. They had no idea what was in store, and for a moment Cyril wished he could warn them. "It's the night Sarah's parents were killed," he finished softly.

His father looked saddened. "I…I hadn't realized," he said apologetically.

They stood in awkward silence, watching as the Cyril of a year past raised his glass, grinning.

"To our first Christmas living together," he declared.

"No, I have a better one," said Sarah, laughing and raising her own glass. "To our first of many Christmases together, and may each one be happier than the last."

"I'll drink to that," said Cyril, and they clinked glasses.

"What exactly happened, anyway?" Cyril's father asked him. "I was still running when it happened. I never knew until…well. I never really heard anything about it."

"They were…harboring Muggleborns. In the basement." Cyril looked at his father. "I…we all thought it was wonderful, what they were doing. I used to hope you'd found someone like them. It was too big a risk, though. We never quite expected what happened. It was foolish, but we didn't. They…the Snatchers found out. They'd been tracking a couple of Muggleborns – just teenagers, they would've still been in school if it weren't for You-Know-Who –and they stumbled across the Fawcetts' house."

Cyril inhaled shakily. "They…they murdered everyone. Her mum and dad, the Muggleborns…her brother, he was just visiting, having dinner with them on Christmas Eve because he was going to have Christmas dinner with his girlfriend's family." He looked at Sarah again. "She found out first thing next morning. The Ministry sent her a…a _notice_ saying that they were very sorry, they would have liked to avoid the deaths as the Fawcetts were a good pureblood family, but the Snatchers had gotten carried away. She packed up all her stuff and left, and she hasn't looked at me like…like _that_ –" he gestured at Sarah, who was smiling at Cyril as she talked, "– since then."

"But that hasn't happened yet," his father said. "Not to this Cyril or this Sarah. Those two are still having their first Christmas Eve in their flat."

"But –" Cyril looked back at his father, confused.

"Forget what happened after. Concentrate on the memory itself. Not happy? Maybe the events happening elsewhere were tragic, but in that moment and in that place, how can you say you weren't happy? Look at your face, Cyril. I don't think I've ever seen you happier." His father smiled at him. "At the end of the night, did you say to yourself 'This is the worst Christmas of my life'?"

Cyril shook his head. "No. I…definitely think I said something along the lines of 'this is the best Christmas I've ever had.' And…it was." Cyril looked at his younger self again. There was that foolish smile, the one he'd seen on himself at the Yule Ball. Sarah's voice, with a laugh in it, brought back a flood of happy memories of years past: their first trip to Hogsmeade as a couple, wrapped up in scarves and cloaks, warming themselves with mugs of butterbeer and kisses; meeting in Hogsmeade again during Sarah's seventh year of Hogwarts, all the joy of seeing each other for the first time after several months' separation; spending their first night in the flat, plotting their future together even as the world fell down around their ears.

Cyril was distracted from these memories by his past self. He had reached across the table for Sarah's hand, silently asking for her attention. "I actually have something to tell you," he said, with a note of quiet pride in his voice. "It's not certain yet, but if I impress them at the interview…there's a possibility I could hire on at St Mungo's, get some training and become a Healer."

Sarah grinned and said, "That's wonderful news, Cyril!" She raised her glass again. "One last toast then – my boyfriend, the Healer!"

"I'm not one yet, let's not count our chickens before they hatch," said Cyril, laughing.

"But you will be," said Sarah. "I believe in you. Besides, you're brilliant, you're kind, there's no reason they won't want to hire you."

Cyril smiled shyly. "To my becoming a Healer, then," he said, and took a sip of his wine.

"We were so optimistic," an older, sadder Cyril said. "The world had gone all to hell and there we were talking about how…how we were going to have more Christmases together and how I was going to try and get the job of my dreams and… how could we have just _ignored_ everything that was happening out there? I was desperately worried about you, both of us were afraid of the Death Eaters, and we just…dropped all of that and had fun." He shook his head.

"Think about it a moment and I think you'll see why," said his father. "Look at that tinsel, look at that tree. It was Christmas Eve. If there's a night for forgetting your worries and just enjoying spending time with those you love, it's Christmas. That's all you and Sarah were doing that night. Not…betraying her family or any of that."

Cyril sucked in a surprised breath. His father had hit on the heart of the matter, the reason he and Sarah hadn't spoken a civil word since the Christmas he was reliving: the guilt of not having been there, not having been able to do anything about it, when Sarah's family was slaughtered by men from the Ministry – the guilt, in fact, of having spent the night of their deaths laughing and speculating happily about the future.

"Don't poison your life with this," his father said softly. "Neither of you could have done anything about it except be killed yourselves – and I, for one, am very glad that you were here, enjoying your Christmas, instead of in Tinworth being murdered by the same sort of scum who killed me." He looked at Cyril, a ghost of pain in his eyes. "It's not the sort of end I'd wish on anyone, least of all my son."

"I…I think I get why we came to this memory," said Cyril. "I'm…glad." He smiled. "And I'm even gladder you were here. You've always given the best advice."

"Good. Then I think we're done with memories." His father placed his hands on Cyril's shoulders. "There's something else I have to show you. This will be unnerving."

**A/N: Thanks to Nat/hestia-jones28 for her beta'ing. =)**


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Unnerving" was an understatement.

Cyril would describe it as the most skin-crawlingly disturbing sensation he'd ever had the misfortune to feel. It felt like he was slowly melting from the feet up and the resulting goop was floating up through what was left of him.

"Sorry about that," his father said when Cyril's body had reassembled itself. "We were traveling through memories earlier; traveling through space is something different."

"I prefer Apparition, and that's saying something," Cyril said, still feeling a bit wobbly. "That was _sickening_."

"Well, as soon as you've, er, pulled yourself together, why don't you have a look around you?"

Cyril ignored his stomach's ongoing protests and obeyed. He was a little surprised to find that he was standing in front of his mother's house. Snow was piled on every available surface, and a wreath decorated with holly and mistletoe hung on the front door.

"You said 'traveling through space,'" Cyril said slowly. "Does that mean it's this Christmas again -1998?"

"Precisely." His father looked pleased. "Now, let's stop lurking about outside and see what's happening in there." Cyril stared after him as he walked towards the door, his feet leaving no mark on the snow. _How was he going to get through–? _

His question was answered before he had even finished formulating it: his father simply glided through the door, apparently more like a ghost than he was willing to admit. A moment later he popped his head back through the door and said, "Well? Aren't you coming?"

"How do I…?" Cyril gestured at the door. His father might look insubstantial, but Cyril still looked like his usual solid self.

"Just like I did. You look normal enough, but you're with me; normal rules don't apply." With that, his father pulled his head back through the door.

"Right," Cyril said, squaring his shoulders as he approached the door. "Just like Platform Nine and Three-Quarters." Moving though the door felt like stepping through a cobweb: it offered only a very slight resistance before disintegrating entirely behind him.

The sitting room looked like something out of his childhood memories: a Christmas tree decorated as his mother always decorated it, with fairies twinkling gently on their branches and fake snow lightly dusting the needles of the tree. A fire roared in the hearth, warming the room and lending its crackling music to the atmosphere.

But Cyril didn't get long to take it in, for his father steered him towards the kitchen. His mother stood at the counter there, rolling gobs of brown dough into balls, dusting them in sugar and sending them off to lay themselves on cookie sheets with her wand. More cookies, these fully cooked, lay on wire racks cooling. His brother Mattie, tall and gangly now but with the same orange curls as ever, snitched a taste of the dough while she wasn't looking. Their mother smiled and pretended not to notice. Her auburn hair was coming down out of its bun in wisps as she worked, and Cyril smiled at the familiar image. His mother made her famous ginger snaps only once every year, on Christmas Eve, and she usually had at least one of her sons getting in her way, trying to sneak a taste early.

Footsteps from behind Cyril startled him, and before he could move out of the way, his brother Henry had walked right through him. "Merry Christmas!" he said.

"Henry!" Their mother turned away from her cookies, smiling, to give him a hug. "My goodness, I'd almost forgotten how tall you were. How have you _been_?"

"Good, actually. Busy, but good." Henry had been promoted to a full Auror several months ago, and even rank novices had plenty of work to do.

"I'm glad," she said.

Henry turned to Mattie. "How's your last year at Hogwarts going?"

Mattie grinned. "Pretty good. I've got a girlfriend."

"Our little Mattie, all grown up!" Henry laughed, while Mattie glowered at him. Henry might be seven years older than him, but Mattie still hated being treated like a child by any of his brothers. "Anyone we know?" Henry asked.

"Not really," said Mattie. "She's in my year, but Hufflepuff. Her name's Amelia Branstone."

"You're right, I don't know her," said Henry. Mattie rolled his eyes at him.

While they had been speaking, their mother had put the latest batch of ginger snaps in the oven and begun to pack the finished ones into a napkin-lined basket. "The last batch should be done in about ten minutes," she said, "and then we can leave. Are you two about ready?" She glanced over at her youngest son and sighed. "Mattie, why don't you put on some nice robes?"

"Mum." Mattie looked exasperated. "Just because these are Muggle clothes doesn't mean I'm not dressed well. Look, nice trousers – not jeans." He pointed down to his khakis.

"Will you at least comb your hair, then?" She directed a stern look at him. Mattie gave a martyred sigh and left to drag a comb through his hair, accepting her compromise.

When he was gone, Cyril's mother turned her gaze to her oldest son. "We haven't seen you in a while. How are you keeping? Feeding yourself well?"

Henry laughed. "I've lived on my own for how long now? Five years? I haven't starved yet, so you can assume that I'm feeding myself just fine, thanks."

"All right," she said. "But I worry about you. You're working all the time these days, and it's dangerous out there still."

"Then just ask after my work," Henry said. "And if you want to know, the most dangerous person I've been sent after was a former Snatcher who was cowering in the ruins of some burnt-down house in Lincolnshire - he was as terrified of his own sort as he was of the Ministry, so you can guess he didn't do too well as a Snatcher. And they sent _two_ pairs of us younger ones after him." He smiled at his mother. "The work we do is important, but they're not gambling our lives to get it done."

"Henry's grown up quite a bit," Cyril's father commented as they watched Henry converse with his mother. "The Henry I knew would have just snapped at her to stop worrying and we'd never get another word about it out of him."

Cyril shrugged. "I guess we've all done some growing up. And Henry doesn't like to upset Mum – he says she's got enough to deal with without him acting like a snotty teenager, so even if he would like to tell her to mind her own business, he doesn't."

Mattie slouched back into the room just then, and both conversations came to a pause. "All right, Mum, I'm ready. Are the biscuits nearly done?"

"Almost," she said, looking over at Mattie. "Oh, that's much better."

"Where are they going, anyway?" Cyril's father asked. "Do you know?"

"You don't?" Cyril asked, surprised.

"Why should I?" His father raised his eyebrows.

"I thought…well, you control this, right?"

"Not really." A lopsided smile hovered on his father's lips. "Really, it sort of controls itself – it's hard to explain. I know, in a very general way, what's going to happen, but what we go to see depends entirely on what you need to see."

"But…" Cyril stopped. "Right. No questions. I'd nearly forgotten."

"It's not because I'm not _allowed_ to tell you, you know," his father said. "I'm just not sure I know myself; and I certainly couldn't explain even what I do know."

"That's…reassuring," Cyril muttered sarcastically. His father snorted, but otherwise pretended not to have heard him.

A loud buzzer sounded, and Cyril's mother flicked her wand in the direction of the oven, opening the door with a nonverbal spell. Another levitated the cookie sheet onto the counter, where she used a spatula to transfer them to her basket.

Cyril's father closed his eyes and smiled as the aroma of spices filled the kitchen. "Now that's something I've missed," he said quietly as he opened his eyes again.

"I could kick you for dragging me off on whatever this is," Cyril said. "I wasn't planning on smelling those at all this year, but now I'm wishing I'd come here for real – the scent's driving me mad, I'd much rather be eating one of those than smelling them."

"Not exactly the best motivation for celebrating Christmas, but I'll take it," his father said, chuckling, as he watched his wife herd two of his sons into the sitting room so they could Floo to wherever it was they were going.

"I didn't say –"

"A joke, Cyril," his father said. "Look, we're going to have to, um, jump through space again…"

"Oh, God," Cyril groaned. "Can't we just Floo?" His father just raised an eyebrow, and Cyril sighed and held out a hand. He squeezed his eyes shut as he felt his father take his hand, preparing for the odd, slithery sensation of disintegrating into the air.

"_Ugh_." Cyril felt mostly whole again, but he already knew that the queasiness would take a minute or so to pass. He opened his eyes to a room that was, surprisingly, completely unfamiliar to him. "Where are we?"

His father smiled. "I'd forgotten she planned on doing this for Christmas."

"What? What is it?" Cyril looked around the room for clues. It seemed to be someone's sitting room, furnished with spindly little wooden tables, chairs and a sofa upholstered in a dusty rose color, and several potted plants. In front of a window there stood a Christmas tree, hung about with velvety red ribbon and garlands of holly and ivy. Standing near the tree were four people: a dark-haired man around Henry's age, a couple who looked to be his mum's age, and an imposing woman who seemed to be a bit older.

"Your mother, she goes to this…support group, I suppose," his father explained. "These people, they've all lost someone they loved in the war. The woman whose house this is, her husband was with me when…" He stopped. "Well, we were on the run together for a while. She and your mother have gotten close. But then, I suppose everyone in this group has; it helps them to know that other people know what they're feeling, and are there to help them when they're feeling sad. They get together for lunch about twice a month."

"_Oh_." Cyril's eyes widened. "I was supposed to come to this thing, Mum asked me weeks ago. I sort of, er…blew her off. The whole, you know, not wanting to celebrate Christmas thing."

Green flames flared in a fireplace along the wall opposite the Christmas tree, and Cyril's family stepped out. The rather intimidating woman Cyril had noticed before smiled and went to greet them, hugging his mother and smiling as she introduced Mattie and Henry. Cyril's mother showed the woman the basket she was holding, and the woman pointed through a doorway behind her. Without speaking, Cyril and his father followed her into a dining room where more people were gathered, talking and serving themselves food from dishes and bowls set out on the polished mahogany table. Cyril's mum set the basket down on the table, and turned away to introduce Mattie and Henry to the others in the room.

"Hey, I know who that is," Cyril said, surprised, pointing at a young man with shaggy red hair who had just taken one of his mum's ginger snaps. "That's George Weasley, he was a Gryffindor in my year…oh." He fell silent.

"What?"

"He lost his twin brother in that big battle at the end of the war," Cyril said. "They were sort of notorious in school, and then they left and set up that joke shop of theirs and became really successful." He paused. "No one ever really said anything about George without mentioning Fred in the same breath. I can't imagine what it's like for him now."

His father smiled a little. "And yet, here he is, celebrating Christmas."

Cyril rolled his eyes. "Is everything going to be about celebrating Christmas with you?"

"Well, yes. That's why I'm _here_, Cyril." His father's eyes were blazing. "You have to understand, all these people have lost someone, and they're living their lives, they're letting themselves be happy. You're not. You have to realize just how unhealthy that is – how much you need and deserve to be celebrating Christmas right along with these people."

"Why does it matter so much?" Cyril snapped, rounding on his father. "It's just one day, for Christ's sake!"

"No, it's _not_! Christmas is just the start!" His father stopped, panting, seeming to have surprised even himself with his vehemence. "You want to know why this is so goddamn important? Come with me." He grabbed Cyril's arm and yanked. The scene around them blurred and broke up around them, and Cyril felt like he was being pressed against some elastic surface; it stretched around him, but wouldn't yield. He couldn't breathe.

And then – blessed relief – the barrier gave way, like a balloon popping. Cyril, gasping for breath, didn't even try to focus on his surroundings at first, but his father's voice broke through his indifference. One word, but the grim tone caught his attention immediately: "Look."

Cyril obeyed, and his breath left him all over again.

**A/N: **Thanks to my loverly beta for this fic, Natalie/hestia-jones28.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The man sitting at the desk was unmistakably an older version of Cyril, perhaps in his mid- to late-thirties; in appearance, he was identical to the person Cyril saw in the mirror every day, if somehow, indefinably, older and more mature-looking. And yet, something about him was entirely unfamiliar: the unconscious frown that furrowed his brows, the impatience in his fingers as he scribbled on a scroll of parchment, and something of hardness about the eyes.

But what really made Cyril feel like he'd been punched in the stomach was the sight of the man standing before the older Cyril's desk, almost seeming to cower as he waited for Cyril to notice him.

They stood there, Cyril, his father and the nervous little man, watching as the Cyril at the desk wrote, the only sound in the room the scratch of the quill against the parchment. When he had reached some sort of stopping point, he set his quill aside with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "Was there something you needed, Morrissey?" he asked curtly.

Morrissey seemed to brace himself. "We – that is, Greta and I – we were wondering…well, whether we could go home, Mr. Cresswell."

"The business of St. Mungo's continues whether there is a holiday or not." The older Cyril's voice was crisp and matter-of-fact. "In fact, Christmas is a particularly busy time of year for our Healers. The answer is no." He looked back down at his parchment and reached for his quill; obviously, in his mind, the conversation was over.

Morrissey didn't agree, apparently. "Sir, it's busy for the _Healers_, but our work can just as easily wait for a holiday."

Cyril set his quill back down, looking straight at Morrissey for the first time, and his voice was sharp when he spoke again. "And why should it wait? We are responsible for keeping the Artifact Accidents floor running smoothly and working on the budget is part of that. If we become lazy, then the hospital will suffer for it."

"But Mr. Cadwallader used to let us –"

Cyril cut him off. "There is a reason why I am in this office now and not Mr. Cadwallader. My answer is final; this business needs doing."

"Do you really want to spend Christmas here?" Morrissey burst out. "Have you no one to go home to, no family or friends to spend Christmas with?"

The older Cyril took a moment to answer, and though his face was expressionless, the younger Cyril thought he might be a bit taken aback by the question. Young Cyril himself waited on tenterhooks to hear the answer; hadn't the older Cyril got anyone? But then, he reflected, _he_ had people, he just wasn't interested in celebrating. So why was he so surprised by his older self not wanting to?

It was, he supposed, because he'd rather thought – hoped, anyway – that by the time he was _that_ age, he would have gotten over Sarah – or, in his best dreams, gotten her back.

The older Cyril seemed to come to some sort of decision; he said a plain "No" and went back to work.

Morrissey seemed surprised; so was Cyril, looking on. "No one?" Morrissey said in disbelief, echoing Cyril's thoughts. "No one at _all? _"

The older Cyril put down his quill again with an angry sigh. "If it will stop you nosing into my private business," he said, "then fine. Take the rest of the night off. But I still expect your report by noon tomorrow."

"Tomorrow –?" Morrissey began to protest, but broke off when Cyril glared at him. "Th-thank you, sir," he said quickly. "I'll have it in by then." He smiled nervously and scurried away from Cyril's desk.

"And Morrissey?" Morrissey paused in the doorway and turned back to face Cyril, rather anxiously. Cyril fixed him with a stern look. "I don't need your pity. I'm well-off, I'm working at a job people my age rarely rise to, and I've got a _very_ nice flat to go back to."

"Not everything, though, is it, sir?" Morrissey said, and left before Cyril could reply. In the silence, the sound of the quill Cyril held snapping could be heard quite clearly.

"That's not me," said the younger Cyril after a painful minute or two of quiet.

"Isn't it?" His father looked saddened by this scene, his eyes fixed on the Cyril at the desk who had found another quill and gone on with whatever he was working on, writing in furious strokes. "This is a Cyril I never hoped to see, but it's you all the same. And it's not just that he's thrown most of himself into his career that worries me; it's the career he's chosen."

Cyril looked from his father to the version of himself at the desk. "Why? You had a desk job, you worked with similar stuff – you always said working Goblin Liaison was tantamount to working at Gringotts, you were always negotiating with finances and such."

"Yes, but I've always enjoyed working with numbers," his father said. "The Cyril I remember hated them. Don't you remember what you said to Sarah last Christmas? You wanted to work at St. Mungo's, but your dream was to be a Healer – not some sort of administrator. Can you really say that, as you are now, you'd be happy managing Healers but never being one yourself?"

"No," said Cyril. "It sounds awful."

"Thank God for that," said his father, laughing a little. "You're not that Cyril yet."

They were both startled by a muffled exclamation from the desk. That Cyril threw his quill down and said to himself, "It's no good." He sat looking wearily at the now-splattered parchment in front of him. "The sums are probably coming out all wrong, and I'll just have to scrap it and re-do in the morning. Might as well throw in the towel and go home for the night."

Silence reigned again as the older Cyril rested his forehead against the heel of one hand and sighed. After another moment, he seemed to gather his strength and pushed himself to his feet. He tapped his wand against the parchment to dry the ink, rolled it up and tucked it under his arm. He stopped at the doorway only to shrug on his coat. Cyril and his father followed as he walked slowly along the hallway and through the reception area. They emerged from the dusty storefront of Purge and Dowse, Ltd., and the older Cyril gave the street only a cursory glance before Disapparating.

Cyril's father seized his arm, and Cyril was almost relieved to feel the sick feeling of moving from one place to another that he had grown acquainted with while following his family about in the present (or, he supposed, the past, from this perspective. He couldn't decide whether it was the recent translocation or this thought that made him so dizzy).

Cyril blinked and brought his eyes into focus. He still felt a bit seasick, but he was too busy taking in his surroundings to be bothered by it.

His older self hadn't been joking about having a nice flat. It wasn't just that the front room alone was at least twice the size of Cyril's current lodgings. The room looked like something out of a catalogue. It was beautiful, polished…and completely impersonal. There were none of the photographs and useless objects collected over the years that the younger Cyril kept in his room. Cyril couldn't even see any books – although it _was_ entirely possible his older self kept the bookshelves in his bedroom. He couldn't see even this strange future self giving up reading.

Now that he thought about it…"Where is he?" Cyril asked. "I mean…where am _I_, I guess," he amended as he looked around. In answer, his father nodded at a door in the wall they were facing. As if on cue, it opened, and the older Cyril stepped through. He stowed the parchment neatly in the drawer of a desk.

This finished, he went through another door into what seemed to be a small kitchen. He flicked on the lights, looked around, and turned them back off again. A second door let him into the bedroom. He examined the room. From his irritable huff, it was evident that whatever he was looking for was not there either.

"Where _is_ the confounded thing?" the older Cyril muttered. "It's eight now; it's usually here by late afternoon." He shoved his hands into his coat pockets, frowning, while the younger Cyril looked on quizzically.

The younger Cyril finally asked, "What's he looking for?"

"Mattie's owl." His father's grave expression didn't waver. "He sends you a letter every Christmas updating you on what's happened with the family in the year just gone. He's done this once a year, every year, for ten years. He keeps hoping that maybe one year you'll send a letter back, but you never do."

Cyril felt sick. "Don't they see him at all?"

His father shook his head. Before Cyril could ask anything further, his older self crossed decisively to the front door and quit his flat, slamming the door as he left.

Cyril's father grabbed his arm. "Heads up, we're moving again." They dissolved into the air, and Cyril wondered wearily where they were going this time. It seemed to take an age for all the pieces of his body to come back together.

The village street where they stood was full of houses decked out splendidly for Christmas. All was silent, and the houses cast their golden light on Cyril and his father. Cyril could almost hear some plaintive carol echoing over the rooftops.

But the stranger who Cyril would become marred this image. He ignored the scenery, his eyes focused on searching the house numbers for the one he was looking for, his body tense with some urgent need that the younger Cyril could not fathom. He drew even with Cyril and his father and stopped short next to them, his eyes fixed on the nearest house.

It was a small house, one story, timber-framed, plastered and painted a delicate shade of pink. Between the thatched roof, the garlands of pine and holly, and the fairy lights twinkling on house and shrubbery alike, it looked like something from a Christmas card.

Unaccountably, the older Cyril looked uncertain at the sight – even scared. The younger Cyril looked for a sign of what had so unnerved him. He saw a movement in a window and squinted, trying to see the source. As his brain finally registered the image, he yelped in surprised recognition. "That's –"

"Henry, yes," said his father.

"But why is he…?" Cyril broke off. "Never mind. I suppose I'll find out soon enough," he said, nodding at the window. Henry was looking intently out. Cyril couldn't help but feel pierced by that gaze, even though it was meant for his older self.

Henry disappeared from the window, and the older Cyril backed away a few steps. But then he gathered his resolve, as palpably and obviously as the coat he now wrapped more tightly around himself. Arms crossed and shoulders squared, he waited as if for a confrontation.

And maybe he was right to expect that, Cyril acknowledged as Henry came out of the house. Henry closed the door softly and advanced down the gravel path slowly and deliberately, but Cyril could see pent-up anger in every line of his body.

Henry came to a stop in front of the older Cyril. For a moment it looked as if he wanted to punch his younger brother, but instead he simply hissed, "What are you doing here?"

"You – you look just like Dad," the older Cyril stammered, visibly taken aback.

Henry simply glared and waited. Cyril drew himself up and said, in a voice that was trying to be cool and nonchalant, "I just wanted to ask if there was anything wrong with Mattie. He didn't send a letter this year, and I wondered."

"Mattie is fine, health-wise anyway. If you ask me, he's doing worlds better emotionally as well. Finally gave up on you, did he? About time. It's been ten years. God knows you gave up on us a long time ago." Henry crossed his arms and said coldly, "It hurts, you know, when your brother won't talk to you and he won't even tell you _why_. Good to know you're getting some of your own medicine for once."

The older Cyril's posture relaxed just slightly, and he said, "Well – good." He paused and repeated, "Good," as if he could think of nothing else to say now that he had got his answer.

"Was that all you came for?" Without waiting for an answer, Henry went on, "Good, then I'll get back to my Christmas and you can get on to whatever the hell you do with your life."

He turned and walked quickly back along the path to his house. Just as he reached the front door, Cyril called, "You –"

Henry turned and waited, arms crossed. "I –" Cyril gulped and raised his chin again, this time to less effect. The pause as he reached for words stretched out, and Henry began to look more and more impatient. Finally Cyril said deliberately, "Tell him I'm glad he's stopped bothering me. I was getting a bit sick of him chasing after me like some sort of puppy. I've got my own life to live now." With that, he turned and strode briskly off down the road.

The younger Cyril could hear nothing but the blood pounding in his ears. Was he really going to be like that? He was sure that his older self had wanted, badly, to say something else. But he'd made the choice to continue shutting himself off from his family, burning bridges as if his life depended on it. He barely heard his father as he said, "That's it, it's back to the present for us now." He ignored his father's comforting hand on his shoulder, and the peculiar, compressed feeling as they made the jump back into his proper time was almost comforting, a physical sensation to match how he felt emotionally.

As his old familiar room swam back into being, Cyril finally croaked, "_Why?_"

**A/N: **Lots of thanks to Natalie/hestia-jones28 for beta'ing.


	5. Epilogue

Epilogue

Cyril's question hovered in the air for a moment.

His father sighed. "I don't know for sure," he started, "but I can guess. I know a little something about grief, and a lot about you, and I've seen a lot of the moments that led up to this one. You're…" He paused, rubbing his forehead. "I'm not saying you're a coward, Cyril, but you don't always face up to things. We've talked about the guilt, but there was also the grief. That Cyril, he ran away from it all – not just the pain of losing Sarah, but his grief about me, a grief he never really let himself feel.

"His friends made him think of his former girlfriend, who wouldn't even talk to him anymore; his family reminded him of his murdered father. It just hurt too much, so he shut them out. He made that choice over and over, until it wasn't a choice anymore but just the way things were. And now, given that choice again, he's made the same stupid mistake he's made every single time. Because that's just the way things are for him now."

Cyril crossed to the chair by the window and sat down wearily. He looked up at his father for a moment, rolling the question he desperately wanted to ask around in his mind. Finally he said, "Can I stop it?"

His father smiled, then grinned. "Certainly. It's why I came here. Everything I've shown you, it was to show you what you can have, and what you stand to lose. The future I showed you is one of many possible futures. Every choice you make changes your future. If you follow the path you are taking now – cutting off your family and friends – that is your most likely future.

"But," he continued, speaking very seriously, "if you change things, if you can have to courage to continue to love people who remind you of loved ones lost, then your future could be very different."

Cyril looked out the window, saw the fairy lights and snow, and said, "But why Christmas? Why is Christmas so important?"

"It's not just Christmas," his father admitted, "but Christmas is a good place to start. It's a day of the year when family and friends get together to share the joy of the season. People especially need Christmas this year, with so much sorrow left over from the war. It gives them chance to heal." He added, "You need that, too. You haven't been living properly, just hiding away from everything: the guilt, the grief, even missing the very people you've been actively ignoring." Cyril opened his mouth, not even sure how to reply to that. His father gave him a wry look. "Don't argue; I've seen you. Listen, Cyril, you have as many reasons to be sad as anyone else, and as much right to be happy. Don't ruin your chance to move on past what's happened to you."

Cyril's father locked eyes with him, looking both serious and unbearably kind. "Believe me, Cyril. I know what it's like to think there's no hope for happiness left. But there is so much hope for you, and you don't even see it. You have a chance to change things for the better; take it."

"How?" Cyril asked helplessly.

"What do you want to do?" Cyril shrugged. "I mean right now. In this very moment, what would make you most happy?"

"I…" Cyril thought for a moment. "I'd like to go to Mum's for Christmas. And-and then…I want to get together with Algy and Patricia afterwards; we haven't talked in ages, I've been so shut off –" Cyril took a deep breath, a wide smile breaking out on his face, and added, "– and then I want to try and get that job after all." Cyril paused and went on, his voice uncertain, "But…it wouldn't feel right if I didn't at least try to get Sarah to celebrate, too. It wouldn't have to be with us, it's just…she's just as bad off as I am. She's not really living either, or at least she wasn't the last time I saw her. I want her to have the same chance that you've given me."

His father smiled. "Then I think you should try."

"I will, then." Cyril squared his shoulders. "Even if it means getting hexed again."

"Do try to avoid that," his father said dryly. He raised his eyes to the ceiling, looking startled for the first time since he had appeared in Cyril's room. A wry smile replaced the surprise, and he told Cyril, "Time's flown. I must be going."

"But –" Cyril couldn't help the wave of disappointment that washed through him. He'd almost been hoping…

"I can't stay," his father said kindly. "This isn't my place anymore. We all must move on."

"I'll miss you," Cyril said plaintively.

"And I you." His father grinned, his glasses winking in the moonlight. "But we'll meet again someday; be sure of it." And with that he was simply – gone.

It took Cyril a moment to process this; even spending part of a night journeying by that same mysterious method of translocation hadn't quite accustomed him to its abruptness. Once his mind had caught up with things, he immediately sprang to his feet, grabbed his cloak and, with a quick turn, Apparated to Tinworth.

The house in front of him was bleak and dark, covered in a patina of snow, scars from the battle that had taken place there a year ago still visible. Cyril hesitated a moment before knocking. He felt hot and nervous; his heart pounded in his ears. What if she didn't answer? What if she answered only to jinx him?

The door creaked open, and Sarah stood there in the doorway, her face expressionless. "I can't do this tonight, Cyril," she said wearily. "Just...don't even bother." She went to yank the door closed, but Cyril lunged in through it before it shut. He stood panting in her sitting room and watched her eyebrows furrow and her hand go to her wand.

"Wait!" he said. Her hand paused on the handle of her wand, and she glared at him. "I–I –" He searched frantically for the right thing to say. "I – tonight something happened, and I realized –" He stopped, surprised to hear his voice crack. A lump had formed in his throat, and he felt tears gathering behind his eyes. He was supposed to be trying to convince her that it was a good thing to celebrate Christmas and that she needed to move on with her life, not dissolving into tears before he'd even had a chance to explain his presence.

Trying to keep his voice from shaking, he told her the truth: "Look, what happened last Christmas wasn't my fault or your fault. It was the Snatchers' fault – You-Know-Who's fault. And you know what? I'm really glad you were with me that night instead of your parents. Because you're alive. And even if you've been….avoiding me all year, I'm really glad of that."

Then words began to spill out of his mouth before he could even consider them. "I've blamed myself all this time for that night. It broke my heart that you wouldn't see me or talk to me or even answer my letters, but I thought I deserved it, that what you were doing to me was justified. That what I felt didn't matter next to your grief. That I didn't have a right to mourn my own – my own father's death –"

He couldn't speak anymore; a sob escaped before he could suppress it. He stood there, not looking at Sarah, until he had controlled the impulse to cry. He'd done this so many times since his father had died, and he was tired of it, but now was not the time.

When he looked up, Sarah looked uncertain. She stepped forward, slowly, and placed her hands on his shoulders. Their eyes met, and Cyril held his breath. Sarah shaped her next words deliberately: "I'm sorry. I can't even begin to tell you how very sorry I am for all the hurt I've caused you. I couldn't possibly tell you everything that was going through my mind, but I never blamed you. If anything, I blamed myself. I convinced them to take in the first Muggleborn, you know."

Cyril inhaled sharply, surprised. She nodded. "I haven't been dealing with this very…" She looked down for a moment, then back up. "Look, it wasn't healthy or right, the way I've been acting. I know that. I've known it for a while now, but it's…hard to break the habit, hard to crawl back to all the people you hurt and bare your heart to them in hopes that they'll take you back into their lives. It's risking so much. It was almost more comfortable to keep going on the way I was."

She smiled now, and Cyril remembered that he hadn't seen her smile – not outside memories, anyway – since last Christmas. If his heart had been shrinking in his chest earlier as he waited for her to answer the door, it was swelling now, until he felt as if he would burst with the joy that filled him.

He laughed, letting some of that exuberance out. "Someone wise once told me that I had as many reasons to be sad as anyone else and as much right to be happy. I came here to tell you the same thing. And to ask you something: would you like to come celebrate Christmas with me?"

Sarah looked uncertain again. "I –"

"Come on. Everyone's lost something, but do you see Christmas being abandoned this year? Listen, Mum's got the tree up, and she's baked ginger snaps. Mattie's probably rigging my stocking with some stupid jinx or another, and even Henry's come home for once. They'll all be glad to see you; it's been a year for them, too." Cyril waited, hoping she would give him the answer he wanted.

She considered for a moment, the smile slowly creeping back onto her face. She looked up at him and said, "Sure. It sounds lovely."

They Apparated to Cyril's mother's house and were greeted with grins and hugs. There was plenty of delicious food – his mother's heavenly ginger snaps included – much teasing and telling of embarrassing stories, and a lot of laughter. When they had run out of stories, Cyril's mother tuned the wireless to some Christmas music and Mattie made Sarah dance with him, while Cyril took his mum for a turn round the carpet and Henry sang along in a corny voice, in imitation of their father. When the song was over, Sarah approached Cyril shyly and asked him to dance.

"Sure," he said, and she stepped into his arms. His every nerve ending came to life as she laid her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. They swayed gently to the music, and Cyril couldn't think of a single word to say. In the end he decided not to say anything, and closed his own eyes.

When the song came to an end, Cyril hesitated, not wanting to step away from Sarah. She raised her head, but didn't step back either. They locked eyes, and any pretense of a dance between friends fell away. He didn't know who initiated it, but suddenly they were kissing. Mattie and Henry immediately let out twin wolf whistles, while Mrs. Cresswell said reprovingly, "Boys!" Sarah and Cyril broke apart, embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," Cyril and Sarah chorused, and then laughed.

"We can discuss this later," Sarah promised, smiling, and Cyril couldn't help but grin back. A day ago, he'd thought he would never have another conversation with Sarah Fawcett that didn't involve incantations for nasty hexes – and she had just kissed him and was willing to talk about it later.

Things weren't back to usual quite yet. There were still reparations to be made, and a lot of talking to do. But all in all, this Christmas was turning out to be much better than he could possibly have expected.

**A/N: **And so my first finished chaptered fic comes to an end. Lots of thanks and hugs go to Natalie/hestia-jones28, who beta'd, and anyone I moaned to about this fic over AIM.


End file.
